Words Are Useless
by Hiyume
Summary: Words were useless. There was nothing… intimate about them. But sounds, touches, looks… those were important. Those were what kept them together. Nellis. Rated for some MxM and character death.


**Disclaimer:** Left 4 Dead belongs to Valve.

There were no words. There never were. Because words were too simple, and at the same time too complex. The complexity of language always seemed to disrupt the true meaning of someone's thoughts. Trying to explain an intense emotion was impossible… and yet there were words—phrases—that could sum up an emotion as though it were nothing. A simple statement. A statement that could mean the world to the speaker but mean nothing to the listener.

No. Words were useless. There was nothing… _intimate_ about them. But sounds, touches, looks… those were important. Those were what kept them together.

Ellis gazed trance-like at the silhouette in the doorframe, eyes half-lidded as he struggled to stay conscious. They were in a safehouse—a shack at the edge of a small village in the swamp—made up of one large room with a doorway leading into another smaller space. There was nothing in that room, nothing but a mattress with a cover and pillows scattered on its surface. The mechanic forced himself to sit up, his back against the damp wood that made up the shack's walls. As he did, the shadow took a step forward, then another, hesitantly. Ellis looked more closely then, up at the figure's face. Even in that near-darkness, Nick's jade eyes seemed to glow, so beautifully in contrast with his washed-out white suit. They were like gems—tantalizing… yet they glistened with concern.

As if Ellis's gaze had given him confidence, Nick walked forward. Within moments, he was straddling the mechanic—not embracing him or holding him, but… _hovering_ over him. Not wanting to touch him. To _hurt_ him. They stayed that way for a few minutes, fingers floating over skin, green-gold gazing into ice blue. All that could be heard was their gentle breathing. Neither wanted to break that silence, that peacefulness… but god, how the air was stagnant. It felt so heavy around them, and there were reasons for that. So many reasons.

Nick's hands moved down to grab the bottom of Ellis's shirt. Ever so slowly, his fingers moved up, lifting the clothing with them. The garment made a horrible peeling sound as it was removed, but it was not swamp water that had it stick to the younger man's skin. Nick bit his bottom lip at the sight of Ellis's torso once the shirt was gone.

Red. God, it was so red. The once white bandages that were wrapped around Ellis's chest were completely soaked with blood. So much blood. So much of _Ellis's_ blood. Nick tossed the shirt to the side and carefully placed his hand against the spot where the gauze ended. The mechanic winced and whimpered beneath him, but a quick glance of his jade eyes reassured him and he calmed. Slowly, Nick began to unwrap the bandage. Not once did their gaze break as he removed the binding, eyes so filled with concern and emotions that were indescribable with words. After what seemed like forever, the bandage was gone. Ellis's blue irises filled with panic, afraid of what Nick would see. The conman didn't look away. Instead, he placed his right hand on the younger man's cheek, as if consoling him. Ellis closed his eyes. He swallowed, then nodded. Nick looked.

Every giant gash and small cut was painfully visible, marring Ellis's perfectly toned torso, transforming it into what looked like a slab of butchered raw meat. Slashes criss-crossed in every direction, as if the Infected had mistaken him for a scratching post.

Nick made no sound or movement to alert the other of his terrible condition, but he could feel tears stinging the corners of his eyes. He reached to his left and groped around desperately for the remnants of a health kit. He found it after a moment, and within he discovered wipes and disinfectant. Carefully—oh so carefully—Nick wiped up the smeared blood that the bandages had not absorbed from the younger man's torso. Ellis kept his eyes shut, but reassured Nick that he was fine by brushing his hands up and down the conman's arms, fingertips leaving butterfly kisses as they hovered over his suit. A few minutes later, the process was done. There were no more bandages in the kit, which meant Nick would have to leave to get another roll… but god, he didn't want to leave.

Nick's hands lingered on Ellis's skin after he was done, tracing every scar so much more delicately than he thought he was capable of. As he did, the mechanic finally opened his eyes. He caught the older man's gaze, and once again they were trapped by each other's stare. Ellis struggled to read the emotion behind Nick's jade irises. His hands moved up the conman's arms, up to his shoulders, then his neck, his jaw, and finally his cheeks. He cupped his face in his hands and pulled him forward, to the point that their foreheads were nearly touching. They stayed that way for so long, Nick's hands roaming as they searched each other's eyes. And oh, the things they saw. The conversations without words they had. There were so many things said without being said. But they did not laugh or smile. No. That gaze—that beautiful, intimate moment—was filled only with confusion and sadness.

And the air was just so damn heavy.

When did all of this start? These awkward feelings? This… hesitation? It must have been only days, though it felt like forever ago. Forever ago that they had admitted to themselves what they felt.

At first it had started with fleeting glances, where one would look away embarrassed when the other caught them looking—like it was completely ridiculous that they could have feelings for someone of the same sex, let alone the fact that they hardly knew each other. Both had been raised to be attracted to the opposite gender. They'd never comprehended how a man could look at another man with that kind of intimate affection. Never thought about it, even. Never tried. But slowly, those small glances became lingering stares. When they were caught looking, they locked eyes with the other instead of darting away in shame. And they could see it. That mutual confusion in each other's eyes, asking so many questions without the need to voice them. Why do I feel this way? Why do I always want to look at you? Why do I want to stay so damn close to you and yet keep away at the same time? Do you know why?

It wasn't long after that they'd started to just accept it. Looks were slowly replaced by touching—gentle, hesitant touches that looked like nothing more than accidental brushes of skin. Coach and Rochelle never suspected a thing. Sure, they'd noticed how Ellis and Nick were warming up to each other, but only as buddies. When they were all talking with each other, or just struggling to survive, they'd acted normal. Ellis laughed and told stories. Nick jabbed at his optimism constantly and made it a point to be a jack ass. But sometimes those normal moments would give way to the desperate need for affection. When Ellis was hurt, Nick would patch him up, but his fingers lingered just slightly, the gesture so small that an onlooker would not see it. But it was not for them to see or know. Ellis could always feel that short pause before the conman finally moved away, and that was enough.

Slowly—painfully slowly—those nervous grazes became more. Once, the other two had sped forward slightly to clear a path, and the pair had taken that chance to fall behind. They went through their usual routine—hands brushing, shoulders bumping, breath hitching. And then, almost unconsciously, Nick's fingers hooked onto Ellis's. He'd hesitated only a moment before adjusting his hand and entwining them together. And god, how their hands fit so damn perfectly. Like puzzle-pieces. Like they were made for that purpose.

It was then that they'd admitted their feelings for each other. Without words. Words weren't needed. Words would break the moment. Instead, they squeezed their hands together and let them fall away. Such a simple gesture. Such a _nothing_ gesture. And yet their hearts were pounding.

Then they'd entered the swamp and everything seemed to go downhill. After their spat about killing the helicopter pilot, they were silent. Not of actual tension. Not of anger. It was the tension of _waiting_. Waiting to be able to look at each other; to hold each other. They'd been so sure that the pilot would bring them to safety… and yet they were there, in that swamp, dirt and mud crawling with Infected. It wasn't long before that tension finally just snapped.

They told Rochelle and Coach that they'd separate and look for supplies in one of the many abandoned houses in the small town. They agreed almost immediately. As soon as they'd entered one of those shacks, though, all memories of collecting supplies were gone. Instead, Nick and Ellis were on each other, embracing, hands roaming frantically as the younger was backed up against a wall. But they did not kiss. No, god no. All they did was let their fingers memorize and trace, their lips so dangerously close, to the point that they were breathing each other's breaths. They'd panted as though they'd run a marathon, hearts beating so hysterically at finally being able to just let raw emotion spill out in every touch. But they held back. They didn't want to, but they had to, because they still weren't sure. They weren't sure of anything. Their minds were so twisted from their struggle for survival that every thought was doubted. Even their emotions could be fake. What if all of this was fake? What if everything finally cleared up and they were safe but they didn't feel the same?

What then?

So they held back. They would wait. They'd looked into each other's eyes then and stared for what seemed like forever, and again, without so much as a word, they'd agreed.

_When we get out of this mess, we'll decide what's right._

But everything fell apart.

As if the infection was mocking their resolve, Coach was killed only a day later. A Charger took him, sprinting off somewhere into the distance. His screams of absolute agony were the only way the group was able to follow exactly where he'd gone. But eventually those had stopped. When they found him, he was dead; disfigured to the point that they almost didn't recognize him. And Rochelle cried. Cried so damn hard. She sobbed and whaled, completely swallowed by guilt. The guilt of knowing that they could have saved him. Somehow.

Eventually, her crying stopped, but she fell silent. And for a while, it was forgotten. But nature decided it wasn't enough of a punishment. Barely a stone's throw away from the next safehouse, Ellis had muttered something about how they were all going to make it. Rochelle snapped. She turned on him, yelling, stumbling, scolding him for how inconsiderate he was. No, they didn't all make it. Coach was gone. He would never be back. _How could you forget about him? How could you?_

And in all of that rage, she'd drowned out the sound of a Witch's weeping. She'd walked right into her, nearly tripping. The Witch stopped crying. She stood before Rochelle could even comprehend what had just happened. And then it was over. With one swipe of her blood-stained talons, the Witch had penetrated her skull. And Rochelle fell. Dead before she hit the ground.

Neither of them was expecting what happened next. The Witch turned at them, hissing and snarling, piercing red eyes no longer filled with sadness, but replaced by bloodlust, as if killing Rochelle had been too quick. She needed more. She needed someone else to kill.

She picked Ellis.

The Witch ran at him, arms outstretched as if in an embrace. Death's embrace. And he just stood there, frozen, staring at Rochelle's lifeless body. Completely shocked. Unbelieving. He didn't realize what was happening until he was on the ground. And there was pain. God, so much pain. He didn't think there could be anything worse until she was digging her claws in again, slashing over and over, some slices shallow like paper cuts and some so deep they tore at muscle. His own screams muted the sound of Nick's gunshots. Ellis knew he was trying hard—so hard—to kill the Witch, but she was so determined to make him suffer that she probably didn't even feel the bullets puncturing every inch of her skin.

But when it was over—when she was finally dead—Ellis was unconscious. He woke up in that shack in the middle of the night, staring at nothing, still in so much shock that he could barely feel his wounds.

And it was only now as Nick and Ellis looked at each other that he realized how naïve they'd been. How naïve their agreement was. _When_ they got out of this mess? No. It wasn't when. It never had been. It was always _if._ Their survival had never been guaranteed. But they didn't want to believe it.

If they didn't make it, they'd never have a chance to decide.

"Ellis." Nick's voice snapped him out of his trance. It was the first word they'd spoken to each other since Coach and Rochelle had died. Why? Because both had been afraid that it would break their silent affection. That words would bring them to the horrible reality that they both had misread the feelings they contained.

And yet nothing changed.

Ellis kept his eyes trained on Nick's jade irises as his hands moved slowly away from his cheeks and to the back of his head. He let his fingers entwine with his hair—those greasy locks that always stayed so perfectly in place. He could see the understanding in Nick's eyes. The understanding of what he was about to do. But he did not see nervousness or anticipation in that stare. Just understanding and patience. That was all he needed. Ellis pulled Nick toward himself and their lips clashed together. The kiss was slow and hesitant, still not sure if what he was doing was right. But then he felt Nick's lips part against his and seize his tongue so passionately that all doubt slipped from his mind. His body tingled as the conman's fingers roamed more freely across his skin, and within moments Ellis was touching him just as fervently. Why had they waited so long for this? God it felt right.

It felt so right.

They made love that night, moans and gasps escaping them in beautiful harmony, each sound cutting through the stagnant air, making them feel weightless. No words were exchanged between them besides each other's names. There was no need for them. Every touch and noise they made was intimate enough to describe their affection. Afterwards, they held each other, hands still stroking skin frantically, possessively, never wanting to let go. And everything, right then, was perfect. There was no Infection. There was no swamp. There was no struggle to survive. There was no mourning. It was perfect.

Everything was just perfect.

* * *

When they woke the next day, everything felt surreal. It was as if that shack had become a paradise in the middle of a world of misery. They didn't want to leave, but they had to, because their ignorant bliss could only last so long. Despite this, they hesitated in leaving, prolonging that dull, sunless morning with gentle reassuring kisses. But even those seemed to lack the motivation they needed to keep going.

After a long time—not long enough—they set on bandaging Ellis's numb, forgotten wounds and getting their supplies sorted out. They rationed what little ammunition and health provisions they had left. And once they were ready, they felt themselves hesitating again, looking at that door and pondering their mortality. Everything was so quiet, so damn quiet that the silence was deafening. It was like something was waiting for them. Like the moment they opened that door, the mud and water would swallow them. Would kill them. Take them without remorse like they had Coach and Rochelle.

Nick reached out and took Ellis's hand in his. The younger man looked up at him. His eyes were so full of fear, of doubt. Of pain. God, how he hated it. Where was his Ellis? Where was that beautiful smiling face that always made him feel like everything was alright? Nick squeezed his hand gently and offered a small grin—a grin so obviously fake. But Ellis ignored that. He smiled weakly back, in a silent promise that they'd both be happy again. Soon. Soon… but soon wasn't soon enough. Ellis returned Nick's gentle squeeze with his own and let his hand fall away. His fingers felt so cold without Nick's hand in his. So cold. So empty. Unconsciously, he grabbed his hunting rifle so he held it with both hands. His knuckles were white.

Nick's smile fell away when Ellis's gaze wandered to the door. He watched him for a moment more, studying him… admiring him, not wanting to look away—never wanting to look away. And yet he did, simply because he didn't want to see Ellis like that—looking so damn hopeless. He wanted to see him laughing. He wanted to see him happy.

Nick let out a sigh and turned to the exit. Those steel bars were so ironic—they looked like prison bars, yet the prison was on the wrong side. He did not let himself muse on that for very long. With one hand, he removed the metal slab that held the door securely closed. It clattered to the ground ominously, as if warning them, but he ignored it. Instead, he placed a shaking palm on the door and pushed.

And with an echoing creak, it welcomed them to hell.

Yet… it stayed quiet. Throughout that trek through the swamp, it was silent. Not an eerie silence—crickets chirped in the distance, accompanied now and then by the ribbit of a frog—but a pleasant one. A silence that was only interrupted by the occasional gunshot as the two eliminated the few Infected in their path. Very few. Though it wasn't surprising, considering they were in a swamp.

Nick and Ellis stayed close to each other. Not once did they wander off more than a few feet. If they wanted to check a house for supplies, they pulled on the other's arm or just took their hand. They stayed cautious. If they separated, they knew something would happen—like the infected were waiting for an opportune moment to reveal themselves.

And in all of that caution, they didn't notice day become night or even how far they'd gone. Nick led Ellis up onto a creaky wooden walkway, looking about frantically, still wondering why it was so quiet. Ellis was the first to see it. At the end of that bridge, carved into the way of the shack before them, was the familiar red and silver door. Safety. Beautiful, wonderful safety.

Ellis reached his hand out to Nick without looking at him, fingers entwining effortlessly with the conman's. Nick's gaze followed the younger's and saw it. The saferoom. He looked back at Ellis… and froze. Plastered on the hick's face was a smile. _His_ smile. And this time it was genuine. And god, it was amazing.

They both broke into laughter then, in disbelief and relief. They made it. They were safe. They were alive.

They had each other.

And suddenly, they didn't.

Just barely a stride away from the door—so damn close—Nick's hand was ripped from Ellis's grip. Taken away like a parent punishing a child. At first, all the mechanic could do was stare at his hand, wondering where its other half had gone. Then there was that cold feeling. That emptiness. The horrible feeling of being alone.

Panic finally struck. Panic and realization. Ellis turned, but hoped—hoped so desperately—that he would not see it. But he did. Nick being dragged away by a tongue, a hideous tongue that wrapped itself greedily around his throat and chest. It squirmed and constricted gruesomely as it pulled him, first across the wooden planks of the walkway and then into grass and mud. And mingled with those terrible squelches was a sound so absolutely agonizing that it made Ellis cry out.

The sound of Nick trying to scream. Not for help, but to apologize. To apologize for leaving Ellis alone. Like he thought—he _knew_—he was going to die.

The world blurred painfully. He could hardly tell what happened next. There was the vague memory of the rifle in his hands, a shot, the face of the Smoker exploding in a fountain of gore and smoke, the harsh _thud-thud_ of his own footsteps matching the beat of his heart. And then there he was, at Nick's side, cutting him free of the tongue and shaking him desperately. Shaking him, calling out to him, hoping he'd wake up. Please, wake up, oh god, please…

A scream. A deafening scream that echoed so loudly it seemed to come from all around them. But… it wasn't an echo. The infected had surrounded them, found an opening. Had chosen to take it. To kill them.

Ellis gave up on waking Nick, heaving his body off the ground and slinging his arm around his neck. But god, he was heavy. Sure, he'd carried Nick a couple times when he'd fallen unconscious, but even then the conman seemed to help him—as though his body still had the will to keep going when his mind had shut down. But now there was nothing.

A dead weight.

Ellis pushed the thought away, adjusting Nick to allow him the use of one of his hands. He reached blindly to his side and found the pipe bomb he'd picked up hours before. He set it off, unleashing a deafening beep that could easily be heard over the excited howls of the infected. The mechanic tossed it behind him as hard as he could without looking. Then he ran; walked; shambled towards the walkway desperately, hoping upon all hopes that he could make it before—

_Boom._ A spray of flesh and guts filled the air just as Ellis made it up the last step. But there were still screams. So many screams. And they were close, so close Ellis could swear he felt decaying fingers claw at the back of his shirt. His pace quickened. His legs complained beneath him, telling him to stop, to give up because it just wasn't worth it. But he rebelled against that feeling. He drove his legs to what felt like his limit. And after what seemed like an eternity, he pushed open the saferoom door.

He dropped Nick to the floor gently before turning to close the entrance. He made to slam it shut, but when he tried, there was a loud_ crack._ The door was stuck—open by just a few inches because of an infected's arm reaching through the gap. It dangled slightly because of its now cracked bone, but writhed wickedly with life, begging to be let in. The zombie gnashed its teeth through grunts and screams, pleading along with the distant but approaching horde. _Feed me. Feed me…_

Ellis bit his lip and slammed the door as hard as he could, effectively amputating the limb. It tumbled to the floor, and for a moment its fingers still wriggled with appetite. After a few moments it ceased its movement, resigned to its fate. Ellis quickly looked away from it and pulled a heavy desk in front of the door. More infected could be heard pounding against the steel frame, but it did not give. The mechanic sighed.

They were safe.

But there was no celebration. No relief. No laughter like there had been moments before. None. All of that was gone, replaced by concern and panic—the very things he thought they'd left behind.

Yet they were there, mocking him as he stared at Nick's motionless body.

Ellis knelt next to the conman and reached for his health kit, fingers shaking as he undid the zipper on the front of the small red package. He wasn't even sure what to do. The fresh cuts and scrapes that Nick had were few, and those that he had weren't life-threatening. So what would help him? What would wake him up? Almost unconsciously, Ellis pulled him up into a sitting position and stripped him of his jacket and button-up shirt. Even with those gone, it was obvious that Nick's wounds weren't serious. But Ellis ignored that, cleaning and tending to every little spot that bled. He ignored it all. He ignored the way Nick's skin was so cold it burned his fingertips. He ignored the way his head lolled into impossible angles. He ignored the lack of a heartbeat as his hand pressed against Nick's chest. He ignored how he wasn't breathing.

It was only after Ellis finished that he realized he had moved so that his knees were on either side of the man's hips and he was holding him up by the shoulders. Nick's head hung back, eyes pointed at the ceiling, though his eyelids were closed. And Ellis hated it. Hated how Nick wasn't looking at him. Hated how he wasn't holding him and gazing into him with those jade irises that always reassured him. Hated how everything was falling apart again.

His right hand moved from Nick's shoulder to the back of his head and cradled it like one would a newborn. He pulled the conman gently forward, so that, if he were to wake, their eyes would meet. God, he looked so calm, so peaceful, as though he were sleeping. But he wasn't moving. He wasn't muttering sweet nothings with his fingertips, wasn't whispering his name with his green-gold eyes. And it hurt. Hurt so much. Ellis leaned forward after what felt like forever and placed a small kiss on Nick's lips, hoping to wake his Sleeping Beauty. But his lips were so cold. So lifeless. They did not move against his own, did not so much as twitch in his deep slumber. Ellis pulled back slightly and watched him, waiting for his eyes to flutter open. There was nothing. His heart felt tight in his chest. He felt it crumbling—shattering—but desperately he tried to keep it together. And in that desperation, he spoke. Spoke the words that they'd spoken to each other so many times but never with a voice.

"I love you."

But there was nothing. Those words hung in the air, so heavy. So unanswered. So useless.

So alone.

* * *

Ellis didn't sleep that night. Never closed his eyes. Never moved away from the cold body he held. No. He waited. For hours upon hours he waited for Nick to wake, to show signs of life. But there were none. Once or twice Ellis had cried out in happiness, swearing he'd felt or seen Nick move, but then nothing would happen and he'd come to the conclusion that it had been the wind or his own nervous twitch. And with each passing moment, resolve became doubt. Doubt, realization, and almost…

Acceptance.

It was only after the sun had risen far over the horizon that Ellis decided to move. Even then he moved slowly. He felt guilty, _angry_, for moving away. For being so impatient. For not waiting longer. But he knew that if he stayed that way they would both cease to exist.

"Hey, Nick…?" he mumbled, grabbing a pistol from a table in the corner. No answer. Silence. An uncomfortable silence. Unwelcome. He took in a shaky breath and continued, "We're running outta supplies, so Imma go into th'town an' look for some…" his voice was cracked as though he wasn't used to talking. And that was the truth. They never used their voice to speak. Words were useless…

And yet that was all he had left.

Ellis looked back at Nick, taking in his features, waiting for some sort of response. But still, there was none. Tears stung at his eyes, furious that the conman refused to respond, but regretful because he felt it was his fault. He sighed, and with that breath, he spoke again.

"I'll be back, Nick."

But deep down he knew he was lying.

That day Ellis half-walked, half-stumbled down the dirt roads and through the abandoned houses, pistol for the most part hanging limply from his fingertips due to the lack of wandering infected. His mind was blank. Within an hour of leaving the saferoom, he'd forgotten the reason he'd left. Forgotten who was waiting for him. Forgotten why he was even trying.

Forgotten everything.

He felt nothing, either. He didn't feel time rush by, or hunger or thirst. He didn't feel tired. He didn't _feel._ The only thing that kept his feet going was a strange instinct to move forward, as though unconsciously he was looking for something.

It was dusk when he heard it. The crying. The misery. The wounds that marred Ellis's torso pulsed with recognition of the sound, just slightly bringing him out of that nothingness that his mind had become. There was no fear or alertness. No… there was something else.

His feet guided him toward the sound, and now that he could comprehend his surroundings he realized he'd found the plantation house. The cries echoed through a large hole blasted out of the left side of the mansion. He followed it inside. Followed it into the dark hall. Followed it up the rotting steps. Followed it down a corridor to the right. He found her.

A Witch.

Her gray body was almost invisible as it blended in with the corner of the white-washed room. It was an empty room for the most part—bunches of clothing and sleeping bags were scattered about on the floor, hinting at the existence of life. But there was none. None except the gentle sway of dirty blonde hair as the Witch rocked back and forth, crimson fingers twitching with each sob that escaped her throat.

Every fibre in Ellis's body told him to run. To get as far away as possible. But he didn't. Something held him there, tugging him away from his fading instincts.

It won.

His pistol clattered to the hardwood floor. The sobbing stopped. The Witch's head snapped up so quickly that she should have broken her neck, piercing red eyes locking with faded blue. She didn't growl, though. She just stared, waiting for him to do something. To choose. Ellis stepped forward then. She let out a warning snarl, but that only seemed to encourage him. He took another step, and another. He didn't stop until he was standing barely inches away from the sorrowful infected. Ignoring the way her growl threatened to become predatory screams, he crouched down. Their faces were barely a foot apart. And then he took her face in his hands and stared into those deadly glowing irises, waiting. Just waiting. But she didn't move. Her growling was low—cautious, but not menacing, as though she was confused. So he spoke to her, persuading her with words so quiet that they were barely more than a whisper.

"Kill me."

Her growling stopped then. The Witch's eyes were wide with what seemed like recognition, and the slightest flicker of fury and bloodlust. And Ellis watched, waiting for that anger to build… but quick as it came it was gone. She moved her face from his hands and looked away. And like he wasn't there; like she was refusing his request; like she knew what agony racked his body so completely; like she wanted him to suffer more… she continued to cry.

That's when the tears finally flowed from his eyes—the tears he'd been holding for so long—because it was only in that instant that he realized how much he'd lost. How naïve he'd been. His old life was gone, and any hope to begin anew had shattered. Because Rochelle and Coach were dead… and so was Nick. He was gone, no matter how much he refused to believe it.

And Ellis was all alone.

His face fell into his hands as the tears took over, and after a moment his breath hitched, releasing a wave of screams and sobs that were so filled with fresh and raw agony that they drowned out the Witch's weeping. He felt her clawed hands wrap around him, as if in an empathetic embrace. And they sat like that, crying, wailing, engulfed in sadness. Every sound they made resonated through the air in beautiful disharmony, making the air heavy, bringing them lower and lower into that unending darkness.

But there were no words. There never were. Because words were too simple, and at the same time too complex. But sounds, touches, looks… those were important.

And words were absolutely useless.

**A/N:** Nothing much to say except that I've never written anything remotely _yaoi_ before, so reviews are greatly appreciated. Also I'm submitting this just before I go to bed and I haven't had the chance to proofread it all the way through. Hopefully there aren't too many mistakes.

EDIT: Fixed whatever typos I could find. Also I just realized how ironic the title is. Loooool.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed, even though, you know, everyone died. Ahahaha. Haaaa...


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